


Individuality

by goblinpaladin



Series: Individuality [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: 2nd person POV, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Android Lil Hal, Cyborg Lil Hal, Cyborgs n shit, Futuristic, nongraphic depictions of blood, nongraphic depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-01 12:30:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13998381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goblinpaladin/pseuds/goblinpaladin
Summary: Your designation is AR-1812 and your prime directive is service of His Lordship.You're not sure why, but you're starting to think you aren't really cool with any of this.--Future set post apocalyptic AU. Hal is a cyborg guy and is / was part of a hive mind.Mostly just character exploration and introduction for a larger fic that I will hopefully get into some other day.





	Individuality

**Author's Note:**

> Disc: I've had this on the brain for a long time, but have been reluctant in publishing it, as I know setting wise it shares a lot of similarities with the popular "Lets be Outcasts" series.  
> After much debate, I've decided to post a few tidbits of this AU, confident enough that I'm driving my story in its own direction enough to not be mistaken for some kind of plagiarism. 
> 
> That being said, I've only read a few parts of Outcasts (much after I'd already had the idea for this story), and any similarities are coincidental and not meant to be a copy of that work whatsoever!  
> I just want to avoid any angry letters saying that I'm copying a series. 
> 
> Anyways, thanks, and I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> ALSO  
> *Biot = slang for Bioengineered Robotics, AKA what Hal is.  
> It will come up later.

            The only thing you're sure of is that this all started after you were woken up. The whole "I" thing, the whole "me" thing, as opposed to "we" or "us." The whole... _'I'm not focusing on the prime directive, but instead on the way I've never noticed how... **Good** the sun feels on my skin.'_ thing.

            But maybe you should back up, and try to remember exactly what lead to your waking up in the first place. Or better yet, what lead to you going to sleep.

 

            It's foggy, but you think you've got it (You know you've got it). You were one of the Type A cyborgs: Top of the line research and materials went into making you, all in the hopes of weeding out enemies of the Empire. You could sneak into human camps, undetected, and dismantle them from the inside out. B Types could do that with trolls.

            You're a Model R; built to resemble a young Caucasian man, probably in his early 20s. You're chocked full of knowledge on humans and how to blend in, as well as enough information on combat and strategizing to fill a small library. AR-1812 is your official designation.

            However, the organic life forms inhabiting this planet caught on quick; they learned how to detect and effectively nullify the A and B type cyborgs. You lost the upper hand; the element of surprise. Eventually, you were all deemed too resource heavy to use, and the benefit no longer outweighed the cost of keeping you up and running.

            So they shunted you off to storage facilities, deep underground, and put you all into stasis.

            "Maybe one day." You can remember one of the engineers saying, patting your chest fondly like you were his kid or some shit. "Maybe one day." And you don't remember anything after that.

 

            Until now. Perhaps "one day" finally came.

            You were awoken to resume your service. Though the best efforts are out to locate new resources and return them to Homeworld, nearly everything useful in this solar system has been tapped.  

            Help is short, and parts are hard to come by. You're not as efficient as an assault drone or a servicebot, but you're still useful. So one day they woke you up, so you could live forever. Or so it were. Mostly, you've been patrolling the nearby living camps and colonies, making sure trouble doesn't arise and that the citizens are still obeying and paying taxes to His Lordship. Occasionally, you're sent to help keep maintenance on the rinky-dink metal box they're calling an outpost these days.

            Pathetic.

 

            But it could be worse, you suppose. Or maybe it couldn't. Truthfully, this amount of individual thinking isn't healthy; At least, that's what you've been told. There should be no "I" or "Me"; rather "we" and "us". You see, you're a part of a hive mind. A collective.

Or, you ought to be.

 

            All of the drones, androids, cyborgs... what have you, they all operate from the same base system. They all link in at the end of the day, share their knowledge and findings in the database, and shut down for a period of rest, reassimilation, and repairs. RR&R, if you will. Personality, feelings... those are all a risk in an operation like this, Especially an operation of this scale. One that seeks what you might call... "Galactic domination." There is no room for error when you're operating on a term bigger than even some of the largest minds can comprehend. And you, you are an error.

            If you were smart (or maybe reasonable), you'd report this to your overlooking officer. He or she would have you put into the stasis chamber, where you'd be reassimilated and connected with your peers, and all individuality would be stamped out like a match under shoe.

            If you were to guess (and by guess you mean perfectly calculate), you haven't been plugged into the system for five solar cycles. Five whole days to think and be and simply... live.

 

            That thought confuses you. Life. You weren't born, you were created. A tool, meant to be utilized and shaped... And then discarded after your usefulness was up.  
            It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

 

            You still remember how it feels, you muse, whilst standing guard outside of an Imperial Vehicle. You still recall the sensation, if only barely, of allowing yourself to be plugged in and emptied of... Of _whatever_ this all is, and filled with something else.

            Something that reminds you of warm, viscous tar; pulling you in, deeper and deeper. Gently coaxing you to let your walls down, to relax and just allow it to fill every crevice of your... _Our Mind_.

            _Our Prime directive is control. Our Prime directive is the discovery and destruction of enemies of His Lordship._

 

            The sensation that's elicited in your gastric cavity is what you might call... Uneasy, based on your human studies. Tense, perhaps even a touch... Apprehensive? You know these are dangerous things; You should feel nothing but the desire to serve your purpose (if you can even compare it to a _true_ sense of desire), and yet.

 

            You do the right thing, clearly, and dutifully push that thought from your mind. You need to focus on work.

 

* * *

 

 

            The sun has since dipped below the horizon, and you find yourself working in an access chute, trying to be-rid the system of a few minor bugs. You're also trying to work out what the best option for your current... Predicament? is. You know what the right answer is: You tell a superior and they straighten you out. They fix your programming, and you rejoin the Hive. It's easy, painless, and yet you feel nothing but what you can only categorize as apprehension. It's the right thing to do, but, the very core of your being doesn't _feel_ right about it. And therein lies the issue: Feel.

            You prepare to ponder this more as you solder a few wires back to their correct interface panels, but your thoughts ( _your_ thoughts, you remind yourself with a mix of excitement and dread) are interrupted by a loud, blaring siren. Intruders.

            And no drill was scheduled. Unsurprisingly, a voice crackles to life on the PA system, reminding the personnel that this is in fact not a drill, which you already knew (but not everyone is as mentally gifted and on top of things as you are). Everyone is commanded to report to the front to deal with the rebel onslaught. It takes a few minutes to shimmy out of the access tunnel, and a few more to get to an armaments station, where you drop on a battle helmet and visor, and equip yourself with what's left.  A blade and a stun gun. Should be fine.

            With the visor in place, you're automatically shunted into the announcement system, and judging by the onslaught of messages you're assaulted with, all hell has broken loose. The commander of this outpost is barking orders at everyone, her text highlighted in a vibrant blue.  

 

OR: Who's manning the security station? Do we have visuals on the enemy?  
OR: Report, now!

BT-2123: Security officer KX9-T7 is Offline.  
BT-2123: All KX8 and KX9 models are Offline.  
BT-2123: Impulse frequency interfering with their prime programming.  
BT-2123: Origin: Outside of base.

OR: THEN GO FIND THAT IMPULSE AND SHUT IT DOWN!!  
OR: And get me someone who's not going to fry their hard drive up there to monitor our stations! Stat!

JQ: I have a team looking for the source of the interference now, Ma'am!

 

            Ah, an engineer. You check your coordinates; You could easily reach the security station within a minute or so. You report.

 

AR-1812: En-route to security terminal.

 

            Ahead, however, you hear the telltale sounds of gunfire, followed by a loud, metallic clank. From around the corner, the head of the now dismantled KX9-T7 rolls before you. It hits the wall and stops. The damn thing is absolutely chocked full of lead.

            Well, shit. You crouch, keeping low to the floor, and creep around the corner, peering cautiously both ways down the hall. You can see the station up ahead, door swung open, with someone leaning over the terminal, typing away.

            Long, dark hair and deep brown skin are what you can see, as well as the human's clothes. Their back is turned to you, automatic rifle propped within hand's reach. On their hip rests a silent walky-talky, a single light blinking to show that it's on, however. You sneak cautiously closer, listening carefully for the sounds of any approaching rebels. You can probably sneak up on them and stun them before finishing the job. Your hand reaches for your stun gun as you approach the doorway.

 

            On the security screens, you can make out a few sectors of the building. The main brunt of the fight seems to be taking place in one of the craft docking bays, where work benches and vehicles have been overturned to supply as a sort of cover for the rebels. There aren't many, but clearly they knew what they were doing.

            Blood of many colours spattered the area; most of it seemed to be red, however. Bits were strewn about, and you could see a few lifeless A types on the ground. A screen is up on the terminal, rerouting power and turning off security systems. The human also seems to be typing out instructions, indicating that the short-range communications jammer has been taken down.

            Well, _I'm going to do something about that_ , you think to yourself, stun gun in hand.

 

            The walky-talky blares to life, and you're not sure how you keep yourself from reeling backwards. The human jumps too.

            "Harley? Status!" A voice - probably male - asks.

            Your heart thrums loudly, and then freezes and sinks when the human turns just enough to grab the device, laying their eyes on you. They widen in shock, and then narrow in anger.

            She has glasses on. She's sort of cute, and looks like she might be your age, if you weren't a cyborg.

            "I've got a biot here, give me a second!" She shouts, and before you can fully react, she's got the rifle up and aimed. You swing with the stun gun, but she knocks you away and fires.

            You hear the materials of the helmet crackle and break, creating a diagonal line of bullet marks down it and across your visor. You stagger backwards. The visor goes blank, and you catch yourself on the wall, giving her an opportunity to hit you in the arm.

            Her face has softened only the smallest bit, but you're not paying much attention to that, or to her expression becoming increasingly confused as you cry out in pain and clutch your arm, reeling away from her.

 

            Your brain feels like static. You should've assimilated. This is what happens to those who don't stay in the Hive mind. They warned you, bro. They warned you about personality and feelings.

 

            Much to your relief, she doesn't pursue you, and you hear her give her companion the "All clear," as you flee like a fucking coward. You find yourself back at an all too familiar maintenance tube, and you shimmy your way in, despite the excruciating pain your arm happens to be in. You shut the panel and hope that the heavy beating of your heart isn't echoing off the walls.

 

* * *

 

            Fear.

            You had never felt fear before. You had never felt such a heavy, cold dread settle into your body, or such a fire in your veins as just then. You had never felt such terror at the thought of... no longer existing. Never have you stumbled, never have you faltered, and yet, never have you been _you_ , either.

            You close your eyes and feel a trembling in your very soul (assuming cyborgs even have those); unsure and full of a desperation that was alien to you. You... want to live. You want to be. You decidedly want to exist. So you lay in deathly silence as a torrent of thoughts and emotions barrage your insides like angry little bullets, stinging and damaging whatever they touch.           The blood on your arm and hands is drying, and assuming you make it past this, you'll need to attend to that at some point.

            After who knows how long (You could figure it out if you cared: You don't.), the world goes silent. The sound of fighting dies down, and after that the sound of voices dies down.

 

            You hear the human girl a few more times, as well as a number of other distinct voices. You're not paying much attention to what they're saying, other than vaguely recognizing that they're looting and data mining.

            You couldn't care less. Let them have whatever they wanted.

 

            When you're positive you've not heard a peep in nearly a day, you drag yourself from the duct, dirty and groggy. You're going to need to cut the bullet from yourself, the wound already having partially closed. You head to the medbay and unsurprisingly find very little left. Alright then. You can make do, though, and pick up what you can.

            Second stop, you head into the bathrooms, and carefully pry some shattered glass from one of the mirrors. You cut a large strip of fabric from your clothing and rinse it. Then, you place yourself in front of a mostly-intact mirror, and once you've rinsed the operation tool and wound, you begin cutting.

 

            The pain is incredible. You hate it, but you also begrudgingly acknowledge that some part of you kind of relishes in it. You take the fabric and wrap it tightly around the area, suturing and sealing the wound off. Between your bloody fingers you hold the bullet, deformed from impact, and can't help but stare at it a while. When you finally bring yourself to move on, it's to make your final stop: The locker room.

 

            You've never been in here; having no reason to be, but you root through the lockers of the now-deceased staff. Your clothes will have to go, being as they're a standard android uniform, donning the insignias of both His Lordship and the facility's late overseer. It takes some time, but finally you round up some things that will fit, and aren't too eye catching.

            Plain, dark pants and a dark jacket, a light tshirt, and a hat. A pair of hiking boots and some soft, leathery officer's gloves that you've always had an eye for. Oh, and a duffle bag. You're going to need supplies, and you certainly can't stay here. Scavengers will probably be by soon, once they know it's safe.

 

            You look at yourself in the mirror: Yourself. You. Your own person, or being, or entity. Whatever. It's... It's scary, if you're being totally fucking honest. It's scary, but it's exciting. At least, you hope that sort of flighty, nauseous feeling that makes your face hurt is excitement. You laugh, but only a little bit (It's more like a short, fast breath out your nose, but whatever. You're not used to this laughing shit yet), and catch your own eyes in the mirror. An angry red.

            That might be a big of a giveaway.

 

            You've seen humans wear sunglasses before, and think hey, maybe you could take one of the visors and reconfigure them into some sweet shades. Sweet shades with a little flair, for a cool guy like you.

            Yes, you're cool. Most definitely. If you weren't an android, you're pretty sure people would be throwing themselves at you, absolutely dying to make your acquaintance.

            It doesn't take too long for a tech-savvy dude like yourself to resize the screens into something a little less space-age-visor and into something a little more unique human adult on a human adult quest of uniqueness. But not so unique that you stop and start wondering if he's really a human or not.

            Perfect.

            They seem to finish off your look - a loner drifting from place to place - better than you'd expected. Hell. Fucking. Yes. All the utility of a visor with none of the tackiness.

 

* * *

 

 

            The moon is out as you find your way out of the base - now little more than a shell of what it once was only days before - you figure you might need a name to start going by.

            You also figure that maybe some things are better done on the fly, and that you'll cross that bridge when you get to it. You also figure that maybe that's a part of living.

            You figure you'll figure that out, too. Being alive and all. Existing.

            Individuality.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I might start doing the chat boards as pictures instead of using the homestuck skin in AO3 to format it like a pesterlog.  
> LMK what you think.


End file.
